


everybody lost somebody

by prettydizzeed



Category: The Get Down (TV)
Genre: Implied/Referenced Abuse, M/M, Post-Canon, Self-Hatred, fat annie died or something bc i didn't want to try to resolve that, i just wanted to focus on shao and zeke's relationship, the rating is mostly for the sheer quantity of curse words
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-09
Updated: 2017-07-06
Packaged: 2018-11-12 05:35:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11155320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettydizzeed/pseuds/prettydizzeed
Summary: Without Shao, Zeke's words were still poetry. Were still something vital and dangerous and whole. Without Zeke, Shao’s music was accompaniment to the silence, to the pause where his heartbeat should be. And his heartbeat wasn't worth shit.





	1. I gotta get myself back home soon

**Author's Note:**

> title and chapter titles from "Everybody Lost Somebody" by Bleachers

Broken.

“You ain't magic.” But Shao had never believed that anyway, had learned so long ago to hold words in his mouth for the briefest seconds so they didn't get a chance to revolt from the untruths. He wasn't magic, not when Zeke spun fucking hurricanes out of the space between sentences, gathered up electrons into his fingertips until Shao's gaze _crackled_ when he tried to look. Zeke was the fucking sun, and no wonder Icarus kept trying to get closer. He set the Bronx on fire again and told it to be a phoenix this time around, and the entire city listened. He poured the marrow back into people's bones, slow and sweet and hurting like a motherfucker. Like a prayer on the devil’s lips.

Shao didn't belong to that, that storm that believed it could purify. These streets were paved with shit and eventually it seeped in through the souls of your feet. The rhythm between these buildings was a eulogy and there was no way to get it out of your head or out of the carpet. The people who conquered these neighborhoods were princes of Hell. There was nothing left of his skin but sandpaper, and a snapshot of everyone's face as they pulled back.

Fuck this. The red was too bright to deal with now, too much pressure on his eyelids, searing something permanent into his corneas. When did they decide this was a good idea. He thought he _needed_ him the second he heard him talk and knew it wasn't mutual and just hoped Zeke never realized. Without Shao, Zeke's words were still poetry. Were still something vital and dangerous and whole. Without Zeke, Shao’s music was accompaniment to the silence, to the pause where his heartbeat should be. And his heartbeat wasn't worth shit.

Maybe Zeke could hear it, those times when he got too close and stayed there, the steady drumming of _iwantyou_ that sang like rain on the roof until Shao strangled it, folded it into something that wouldn't burn his throat on the way out and spit it out as _fuck_. Sometimes he thought he heard an echo, a mirror image slipped beneath all the posturing, a secret beat that carried the words’ pulse and said the sun was flying toward him, too, and their collision would be full of awe.

_Maybe you don't think I'm magic, but you looked at me like I was._

And fuck him, damn him to hell. But damn Shao, too, for the half-second in which he was convinced Zeke meant it. “You a natural everything.”

A natural disaster.


	2. curse the sun for coming up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said this was going to be longer and I lied. it worked better split up into two smaller chapters, I think.

Shao ran. Because he was good at it. Because sometimes the only thing he knew was how to keep moving even when his bones were somewhere in the asphalt, how to step with skin alone. There was a beat to it, something insistent. There was something ironic about the cadence of his breath, how it left him empty for a damning moment between pushing everything away and gasping to get it back.

_This body is a fucking metaphor. Thought he liked those._

But really, he knew: Zeke liked soft, liked words that lilted and made people dissolve, liked butterscotch bodies and the corresponding melt. And Shaolin Fantastic was not some motherfucking candy, and Shao was steel from all the shrapnel in his skin, and Zeke didn't write shit begging him to fall in love with him. He didn't have to.

His shoes kept wanting to turn his body around, no matter how many weeks it'd been. Just get within earshot of him. Then—anything. Fucking grovel. Bleed his street cred out through his knees on the pavement. Beg himself back into Zeke’s peripheral vision. Ask the god of some cathedral how to be loved, how to breathe in the dark, how to take it all back.

But she, and she, and she, and he kept going wherever, anywhere else. Her name in every echo of his footsteps, the letters shaking and heavy and announcing with perfect spelling every reason this was fucking impossible, fucking doomed.

The TVs shouted in all their neon unholiness that California claimed a new queen and Shao’s heart was something airy and venomous, but he squared his shoulders and tied it down, bit his tongue on the _I told you so_. Instead: an empty spray can. On the wall, a stack of books, the spines yelling out all kinds of regret. HER DREAM SHOULD HAVE HAD YOU IN IT. It was the best he could do, now. It wasn't near enough.

He kept circling back, making paint splatter of his internal organs, biting his lip. In three days, like this was some fucking miracle: HE’LL THANK YOU EVENTUALLY. Shao pictured Dizzee at night, making all those colors align, caring enough to use them on something Rumi wasn't a part of. Alien brother.

_I told you my name._

And then he went and said it.

And that was the problem, really. He made words sound like they meant something. And then he said Shao's name like it was just a bunch of letters.


	3. come on motherfucker you survived

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what's this? actual plot???
> 
> thank you so much to everyone who commented omg y'all make me so happy

When Zeke was back—only a week at a time, and only after months—Shao barely left the temple. He told Dizzee he didn't want to know, but he still got snatches:

_“Cmon, Zeke, don't say that. You know he paid Boo’s bail?”_

_“Yeah, with money from the same drugs that got Boo in jail to begin with. That doesn't change anything, Dizz.”_

And it didn't. What changed things was the gun in some stranger’s hand and her body—her body, no longer able to reach for him—and all that power in the hands of people who didn't give a fuck about the get down or people who were once brothers or Shao running and never coming within miles again.

Dizzee knew everything had changed. Shao was pretty sure Zeke still thought nothing had, the next time he was back. And maybe they were only meant for summer, because who could rule the world in this weather? But the air still shifted when he was there, the city still screamed long live the king.

He rebuilt the temple, which sounded fucking biblical, but really he just needed an address no one would know. He didn't keep enough money to be worth coming after, but that didn't mean anything, didn't guarantee anything. He still expected to see her ghost on his couch every time he entered the room. Dizzee tried to fill the space with people and excuses—Napoleon needed a place to crash, white boy stayed out too late bombing and the trains stopped running for the night, Dizzee was tired of people who wanted him to be from earth—but when Zeke was back, everything was empty. Fucking metaphor. Fucking paradox.

_“He cried over her a lot, you know? Even when they didn't really talk much anymore. He cried over her, but he hasn't been writing about her, ‘cause he always showed us those rhymes and he keeps these hidden.”_

Shao slept with his teeth clenched.

“I'm gonna tell him.”

“What the fuck, Dizz?”

“He should know your circumstances have changed.”

“No, he fucking shouldn't, and it doesn't fucking matter, and don't you fucking dare.”

Maybe he did. Nothing changed. Kings don't need temples when they're the ones being prayed to by a people too desperate for a god, by palms with the need for something tangible but not necessarily real. Temples were for those who had no concept of an aftermath, with the tinge of something holy still hot on their tongues, so Shao started calling it an apartment.

Then Zeke was in his apartment.

He looked like the sun, because _of course_ , dammit, sure of himself and hard to look at, and it had been so many fucking goddamn months and Shao's blood was evaporating and he didn't even give a decent answer to _the fuck are you doing here_ just stepped inside like he knew Shao wouldn't stop him, like he knew Shao was too damn _radioactive_ to do anything right now, and started talking just to rub it in that he was capable and _fuck him he was capable_

& he said _I didn't know_ Dizzee never told me but then Dizzee never told me a lot of things he said you've met that white boy and I still don't know his name and I guess he told you Mylene left and he says you won't say what happened with them and what am I doing in fucking Connecticut man I don't know his name I didn't know Dizzee was

“Was what.”

Zeke looked like he wasn't expecting Shao to speak.

“Was what, Books? What’re you gonna call him?”

“Easy, Shao, I'm not gonna talk shit, he's still my brother.”

“Yeah? And what about people who aren't your brother?” He should be looking at his eyes, that would put some force in this, but he can't so it sounds vaguely desperate.

“Shao…”

“I'm just saying, don't talk shit about anybody about that. Plenty of other shit to talk about.”

“Yeah. Yeah, okay.” Zeke opened the door. “Anyway, Dizz made me swear I'd come see you, and I did, so.”

“What, you want me to thank you or something, man?”

“No.” Zeke's face was too fucking familiar, splatter-painted with summer days and the nights they'd spent in the same room. Shao sighed.

“So how's college or whatever?”

Zeke stepped back in, closed the door. Barely even hesitated.

No matter what else had changed, Shao had been right. Zeke still spun poetry unconsciously, filled up the room with words until it was hard for Shao to breathe, all those syllables replacing the air in his lungs until there was no space to say anything.

Which was probably a good thing. _I miss you. You're killing me._

Zeke tried to ask about the white boy. Shao shook his head. “That's Dizzee’s to tell, man.”

“Yeah, okay. He won't really talk to me about it. I guess he thinks I'm freaked out or something.”

“Are you?”

“Nah, it's… I get it, you know? It makes sense.”

“Because it's Dizzee?” Fuck this, he shouldn't be shaking.

“No. I just… I get it.”

Shao's throat hurt, sore from everything he hadn't said. _You're killing me._

“Yeah. Me too.”


	4. and there's a reason I wake up alone in strange places

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so I decided the last two chapters are going to be in present tense, let me know how you feel about that?

They don't talk about it.

They don't talk at all, really, Zeke just leaves and it’s months again and then it’s summer again and it’s too much time to avoid each other. It’s too hot to pretend.

So when Dizzee hauls Zeke to Shao's doorframe and looks at Shao and says “Stop flinching when I say his name, you're making my paint thin,” Shao just nods.

Zeke rubs the back of his neck. “So, uh.” He lifts one shoulder. Shao had forgotten the exact texture of his voice. “Y’know, Mylene was really jealous of you.”

Shao snorts. “Nah, she was just scared I'd corrupt your ass.”

Shao hadn't forgotten his laugh. Like rain on this burning city, too healing to handle.

“I mean, yeah, but not… Like, she thought I'd leave her for you.”

There are no cuss words strong enough for this. There is nothing he can say that could summon earthquakes, that could sear the sky, and maybe Zeke could say something close enough to express this intensity, to manage it, but he's still talking—

“Which, like, I told her was ridiculous.”

There are no words for every speck of your cytoplasm turning to acid. Shao’s ears are ringing from the fucking force of it but he still hears Zeke continuing as if he didn't just launch a bomb from his mouth—

“But it got me thinking, you know? And like, I wouldn't have, but when she moved and then when things weren't working anymore and… Maybe she had a point.”

There is no possible way to formulate a response to that, so Shao says, “She told me to get my own boyfriend or some shit like that.”

“Man. Dizzee, Mylene, everybody seemed to get it except us.”

“Speak for yourself.”

Zeke snorts but manages to also look curious and a little embarrassed. Maybe. Maybe Shao's seeing all sorts of things that aren't there, like interest. “Really?”

 _Yeah, really. You beautiful fucking dumbass._ Shao shrugs.

“Wow, I must be fucking oblivious.”

“You are.” Zeke jostles him and he grins. “‘Sokay, it was better that way.”

“I'm not so sure.”

“Oh, please,” Shao says, because he will not let Zeke fucking flirt with him by dismissing the girl he was hung up on for fucking years, no way in hell is that how this is going down, although he knows it's only gonna go downhill—

“Yeah, you're probably right. It took til now for me to get what was going on with myself. Some people at Yale… It took seeing them, like that thing Dizzee says, y'know, free people being free.”

Shao just nods because he's too busy wondering where they even go from here, it's not like they can squeeze those words out of the carpet and put them back safely in their lungs, it's way too fucking late to laugh it off.

Zeke is still looking at him like he's expecting a response. “Listen, uh… Can we just act like this never happened?”

His face is a broken window. Shao can see right through it, see where he keeps everything valuable.

“Why?”

Shao rubs the back of his neck and sighs. “Because that was a long time ago, man, and I don't want things to change—” not that they had much left to change, anyway— “with you knowing that I'm… that I was… you know.”

“No, I don't know. You've been standing here while I say yeah, Mylene was maybe a little too early on calling it but she was right, I love you, and you haven't said a damn thing. You leave it all implied in the shrug of your shoulders but I don't know for sure because you won't _tell me_ and then you act like you're the one at a fucking disadvantage here.”

Shao snorts. “You? At a disadvantage?” But he can tell Zeke’s pissed enough to do something like leave again, so he sighs. “Yeah, Books. I love you.”

And then Zeke is breathing poetry into his mouth, every little sigh some fucking sonnet, and this is some act of _creation_ , they're a goddamn _art_ —

Zeke's hand touches his skin, under his shirt, and Shao shoves him. “Don't.”

Zeke holds his hands up, looking stricken. “I'm sorry, man. You okay?”

“I said fucking _don’t_ , Books.”

Zeke nods slowly. “Okay.”

He leaves Shao alone with the static in his skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> soooo yeah I increased the chapter count again because I really felt like Shao's experiences with abuse needed to be addressed and couldn't be dismissed in one scene, yknow?


	5. take my clothes, that's better

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it took so long for such a short chapter but it was hard to write this the way I wanted it. thank you so much to everyone who's been reading this!

Zeke comes back.

It's morning. Early. Shao wishes he could think something like _I knew you would_ , but he didn't, so instead he thinks _fuck you_.

They sit on the roof and smoke.

“You here all summer?” Shao asks eventually, and Zeke looks at him.

“Am now.”

Shao doesn't know what that means, but he nods. His body is a foreign language, but he swallows, and tries to translate—

“Sorry, Books.”

Zeke shakes his head. “Remember how I'm oblivious?”

Shao snorts. “Yeah.”

“I didn't know. I—I should've figured it out.” He squints at the horizon. “I'm glad she's dead.”

Shao exhales. “Yeah.”

Then Zeke _asks_ if he can kiss him, and Shao fights hard against whatever's in his chest that's threatening to make him cry.

  
It's the end of summer, which shows exactly how stubborn Zeke is, when he whispers against Shao’s mouth, “You ain't broken.”

Shao can practically feel the scrapes on his elbows knitting back together. “Not anymore,” he says, quiet, his throat just barely allowing it out.

Zeke shakes his head. “Not ever.”

When Zeke's hands end up on his waist, Shao tugs his shirt up just a little, so Zeke's thumbs are on his hipbones. It's a fucking renaissance. This kiss belongs in a museum. This kiss belongs spray-painted on every train in the state.

Shao breathes against Zeke's mouth, Zeke's mouth like the opening riff, like the get down, Shao playing this on repeat and repeat and repeat.

**Author's Note:**

> come yell with me on tumblr @basilhallward


End file.
